A Good Day To Die (30 page)

I knew this would be the last I saw of Emma, but in a way it felt right. She was too young, too pretty, and if I'm honest, too good for me; and since there was no chance of anything ever coming of our
relationship, it was best that we parted now, before things got serious.

I walked back to the hotel room and had a shower. The water was lukewarm so I was only in there two minutes and was cold when I got out. I got dressed and lay on the bed, and thought about my next move. I was tempted to go out and have a few drinks, maybe back in Ernie's pub, but I wanted to be fresh the following morning.

I looked at my watch. Seven twenty. I picked up the mobile to call Andrea Bloom, then realized I didn't have a number for her. I asked myself whether it was really worth a trip over to Hackney now to see her, but the alternative was lying in this shitty hotel room staring at the cracks in the ceiling, and in the end that wasn't much of an alternative, so I forced myself up off the bed. I needed food. Then I'd be on my way.

34

It had just gone nine o'clock when I turned into Andrea's street, having walked all the way from Angel underground station, and the night was cold. A biting wind rattled round the pavement, scattering pieces of rubbish and keeping the area's citizenry behind closed doors. I was wearing a grey beanie hat I'd bought the previous day to replace my 'I love London' cap, and a scarf pulled up over my face. Only my eyes were visible.

There was a light on in the living room and several lights up on the third floor, although none on the second or in the hallway. According to Andrea, the house was a squat that she shared with her boyfriend, as well as another couple and a single guy. There didn't seem to be much activity for so many people.

I approached the door, hoping that my journey hadn't been wasted, and saw straight away that it was very slightly ajar.

I stopped dead, and listened. The TV was on in the living room. It sounded like a quiz show with plenty of audience participation and the volume was quite loud. I couldn't hear anything else so I pushed the door open slightly, wondering whether or not to knock. Wondering too whether or not to go inside. People don't leave their doors ajar in an area like Hackney. They don't do it anywhere in London, especially not on a freezing cold night like this one.

I pushed it open further and stepped inside, shutting it quietly behind me. I resisted the urge to call out.

From somewhere up the stairs there came a creak, and then the clank of pipes heating up. I wasn't unduly alarmed. This was an old house - 1920s, I'd have guessed. Things creaked in a 1920s place. Again, I listened but there was no other sound.

I had my gun with me but didn't reach for it. It would have been far too difficult to explain away.

Turning left, I pushed open the living room door and the TV suddenly grew louder. The quizmaster was Chris Tarrant, and he was asking the contestant what the capital of Rwanda was. He gave him four alternatives while I scanned the empty living room, noticing that there were a couple of open cans of beer next to one of the seats. They hadn't been there the previous day, and since the room was otherwise tidy, I concluded that they'd been opened this evening. Not that this told me much.

I retreated from the room as the contestant won eight grand for getting the answer right (it was B: Kigali), and started up the staircase as quietly as possible. Two of the stairs creaked loudly as I put pressure on them, but I kept going regardless.

At the top of the stairs a door was open. Although it was dark inside, I could see that it was a toilet, and empty too. There was still no sign of anyone.

Two more stairs to my left led up to the second floor. I went up them into the darkness of the narrow landing. A door immediately to my right was shut.

'Hello?' The voice came from up the next set of stairs at the end of the landing. I recognized it immediately as Andrea's. 'Is that you, Jeff?' she added.

'No, it's Mick Kane, Andrea,' I called back. 'Your front door was wide open. I need to speak to you.'

'What's going on?' she demanded, still out of sight. 'Why's it so quiet down there?'

'I don't know,' I answered truthfully. 'There's no one in the living room. I think you must be the only person in.'

'I'm not. Maz and Star are in. Or they were a few minutes ago. I heard them.'

'Maybe they've gone out for some cigarettes or something. I just had a couple of quick questions.'

'I don't want to talk to you any more, and I don't like the way you've just walked in our house.
You weren't invited, and it's freaking me out.'

'I'm sorry, but I couldn't phone you because you never gave me a number. I visited the psychiatrist who treated Ann today, Dr Madeline Cheney. She filled me in on a lot of things. I think you can, too. Please? It won't take more than a few minutes and it's extremely important.'

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted something moving, down near my feet, only just visible in the gloom.

'I'm not talking to you. I'm going back to my room now, and I'm locking myself in. If you don't leave, I'll call the police. I mean it.'

I looked down. A dark line had appeared beneath the door on my right. The line was getting longer, touching the threadbare carpet and forming a small pool where there was a kink.

Blood.

My whole body tensed, and when I spoke next my voice was loud and urgent. 'Andrea, listen to me. You've got to come down, right now!'

I could hear her retreating up the next flight of stairs, back to her room and what she thought was safety. 'I told you,' she shouted. 'I'm going to call the police.'

'There's something wrong, Andrea. You've got to believe me!' My voice was getting louder. There was someone else in this house; someone who shouldn't have been here. I pushed the door and felt it come up against an obstacle. I pushed harder
and it slowly opened, forcing the obstruction out of the way.

'Come down here, Andrea, please!'

I reached for the light switch inside and flicked it on.

And saw the corpse.

Registered the sight. Blinked. Registered it again.

It was a young man of about twenty, with spiky, dyed-black hair and dead blue eyes. He was lying in a foetal position, blood still pouring from the huge twin gashes across his face and throat.

Upstairs there was the sound of footfalls on the carpet as Andrea ran back to her room, then the sound of a door shutting.

I pushed further into the room, saw the semi-naked body of a slightly built woman, about the same age, on a low futon bed. She was lying on her back, one arm draped across her breasts and belly, glassy eyes staring at the ceiling. She'd had her throat cut too and the blood was beginning to dye the sheets round her a deep red.

This time I pulled out the .45 and stepped back out of the room, pointing it into the darkness ahead.

Once again the house was silent except for the murmur of the TV downstairs.

'Andrea, if you can hear me, I want you to come down the stairs right now and leave with me. Or else call the police.'

There was no reply. Nothing. Not even a creak.

I could have gone. Turned round and walked. Dialled 999 from a safe distance away.

I could have done, and I wanted to. But I didn't. Instead, I crept down the corridor, turned at the end, and started up the flight of stairs that led to Andrea's room, finger tight on the trigger of the gun.

A stair creaked. Above me was almost pitch darkness. I kept going.

When I reached the top, I stopped. I was on a small, windowless landing. There were two doors to my left, both closed, and one right in front of me, also closed.

'Andrea? Are you there?'

Silence. Not even a breath being drawn. All I could hear was the thudding of my heart in my chest.

I fumbled round for a light switch but couldn't see one, then stepped forward and flung open the door directly in front of me, staring straight into darkness. As my eyes adjusted, I saw a tiled floor with a bath to my right, partly obscured by a shower curtain, and a toilet and washbasin further on. The faint glow of street light eased through the window at the end.

I pulled back the shower curtain. Fast, in one movement.

The bath was empty.

So was the rest of the room.

As I stepped back onto the landing, I heard a faint sob.

I stopped. It was coming from one of the other rooms to my left. I knew it could be a trap so I took another step back, then turned until I was facing the two doors, unsure from which one the noise had come.

I stayed where I was. Stock still. Waiting. Listening.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the door nearest to me opened. I held the gun outstretched in front of me, two-handed, waited for what seemed to be a very long time, my arms aching, beginning to shake.

And then Andrea finally appeared, standing upright, staring at me. Frightened, terrified . . .

. . . And dying.

The blood was gushing out of the gaping wound in her neck, each pulse of her heart spurting more. It was everywhere, splattering in a series of arcs on to the carpet in front of me.

For a moment I was too stunned to move, then suddenly she came flying bodily in my direction. I tried to dodge her but she hit me head on, her mouth opening and shutting and making this horrible gasping sound as we both fell back against the top banister in a wet and bloody embrace. I pushed her out of the way, catching sight of the killer as he came towards me, an iron bar raised above his head, dressed in a transparent waterproof jacket and mask, looking like something out of a chemical warfare film. Andrea staggered and fell, still trying to grab hold of me with one hand while
the other worked vainly at stemming the tidal flow of blood.

The blow caught me on the side of the head as I raised the gun to fire and I was momentarily stunned. My grip on the gun eased and it dropped from my hand as I grabbed at the banister for balance. He hit me again across the side of the face and this time I went down hard, landing on top of Andrea before rolling off her and trying to get myself into a protective ball. His next blow was a kick that caught me in the guts and made me want to vomit, the one after that connecting with my face. I could hear him grunting with exertion, and the obscene crinkling of his suit as he moved back and forth.

And then he did a strange thing. He stopped and dropped the open cut-throat razor he'd been carrying in his other hand onto the carpet near my head. Blood dripped from it.

As I tried to focus, he stepped back to kick me again. Two feet away, Andrea Bloom lay sprawled and fading on the floor, the blood continuing to flow out of her at a terrifying rate, the carpet now awash with it, but still she watched me with dark, beautiful eyes that pleaded for one last chance to live.

'What the hell's going on up there?'

I recognized the voice. It was Andrea's boyfriend, Grant, and he was coming up the stairs.

The killer paused, then kicked again, but this
time I was ready for it. I got hold of his leg and pushed him away with my last remaining strength. He fell back against the wall, then pulled free and turned and ran past me, lashing out with the bar as he did so and catching me across the arm. I fell back to the floor, my vision becoming fuzzy and my head aching like mad for the second time in a few days. I wanted to lie down, to go to sleep. I could hear the killer running down the stairs, heard him confront the boyfriend, heard Grant cry out as he came off worst, and knew without a doubt that if I stayed where I was and gave in to the temptation to close my eyes, then not only would I go to prison for the murders I was wanted for from three years ago, but I'd also go down for the ones in here. Because I was the one left with the murder weapon and a houseful of corpses.

Using the banister for support, I got to my knees, and then my feet. Andrea had stopped gasping now and her eyes had closed. It was possible she was still alive, but if she was, it was purely academic. Even in the gloom I could see the blood everywhere; could smell the sour, inevitable approach of death. There was no hope. She was gone.

But there was no time to ponder the injustice of her murder. I had to get the hell out of there. I looked round for the .45 but couldn't see it. I squinted, finally spotted it in the corner of the landing, and staggered over to retrieve it. My head did
some sort of internal somersault as I bent down and picked it up and I had to steady myself against the wall to stop myself from fainting. I wanted to puke. Badly. But vomit leaves DNA, and I couldn't have that.

I swallowed, made for the stairs, staggered down them, the darkness ebbing and flowing in front of me. Made my way along the hallway towards the second set of stairs, holding the gun unsteadily in preparation for any last-ditch ambush by the killer.

Grant's body was sprawled backwards on the staircase, his right leg bent at an awkward angle, one foot propped against the banister. His face was a mask of blood, his hair thick and matted with it where he'd been bludgeoned with the iron bar. A slither of white was showing where his skull had been exposed and flecks of blood dotted the bare wall behind him.

That could have been me. But no, he'd wanted me alive. Wanted me set up for these murders. Which meant . . .

The Lord alone knew what it meant. I swallowed, resisting once again the urge to vomit, and tried to step over Grant's body, stumbling as I did so and tripping over his leg.